


Cadaver courtship

by lilivi56



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Necrophilia, Other, gore?, this is a clustercuck of weird shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:08:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23315935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilivi56/pseuds/lilivi56
Summary: Is it so wrong to fall in love with a corpse?
Kudos: 5





	Cadaver courtship

**Author's Note:**

> TW for necro and questioning the morality of why we think the way we do about corpses because i was feeling some kinda way when this was written

Is it so wrong to fall in love with a corpse? 

To kiss pale hands and wretched veins; to savor a frigid and shivering sigh pushed into cold, parted lips— would that make a child of God into a sinner? Caressing a marionette of pliant skeletal tissue and maggots; bony, yet somehow supple and soft to the touch— would it truly be so disgusting? To love a hollow of rot, or to desire a vessel amidst inevitable decay— would that imply repugnance? To watch eyes glazing over with grotesque death, sparking vulgar lust in the eyes of one living— would that define deranged? 

As it begins, it has already ended. 

Warm-blooded fingers press into cold and bloodless womanhood, wrenching forth a sigh of relief as sickening sounds of fluttering, folded skin echo into a place of woeful worship. Unfeeling, papery integument becomes raw by unhinged ministrations of a puppeteer who became all too fond of tranquil, cold, and precious porcelain dolls. 

Oh, how it aches! Pressing turgid flesh into a body- satiny and soft, yet harsh like sandpaper. One could not begin to emulate the innate elegance of sharp cheekbones and curvaceous mandibles, or the odious pulchritude of pellucid eye-sockets pushing rotted eyes to the surface, bulging and bloodshot. 

A tentative hand gingerly presses back into a bruise as if putting on a glove. A mouth, never given the chance to ask, to fight, to scream, utters no sound; who is to say it ever spoke in the first place? Giggles reverberate throughout a capricious chest; the curious thief of innocence begins to consider: why do figurines created to be inanimate plead for life, when they are worth so much more with opalescent and un-breathing porcelain skin? 

Might it be unscrupulous to place fragile lips upon festering meat? 

When tender moments are lost, sacrilegious admiration of a soul deceased recedes into revulsion. Where did the love go? Did it become lost in a shallow veneration for departed comeliness? 

Perhaps this sentiment was meant to be fleeting; perhaps it was meant to be cherished whilst the time was still right. A whisper in the mind, just before the descension into dormancy plants wretched prophecies into a mind too sick to handle the slightest of occult truths. 

You were created loving the putrid bodies festering with children of the Lord of the Flies! Make the call, for you are being beckoned to claim your birthright!

Fall on bended knee, disgusting child of Beelzebub! Turn your disgusting tear-streaked supplications southeastward, as judgment awaits thine unholy anguish! Lord of the Flies, of war, of pride, of gluttony— bear the name! Sin freely, being conscious of immoral inclinations. 

You have the approval of malevolent beings. The only question is, do you believe they are more than delusions of the harrowed mind?

Fill your infected and aching spirit! Let disgust ravage mortal meat whilst you slick an unpleasantly warm and sweaty body against yours. The soul is worthless; it is worthless! Get rid of the vexatious heat lying beside you in post-coital bliss. 

Legs twitch to begin, and the attached torso subjected to morbid reasoning follows suit. Fidgety and uneven movements slide into place, unseen to lidded eyes until the palpable feeling of a soft crotch against the pits of the stomach, and knees gripping the sides of a ribcage startle open corporeal windows of a pitiable putrescible, unveiling a dripping pair of dampened orbs. Subtly, a misinformed and sultry grin takes shape into flushed flesh, quickly distorting into wide-eyed terror as a hand grasps desperately at a quivering cylinder of meat— closing too tightly; too harshly. Another hand weaved into splayed out tresses, caressing and soothing, ushering in blurred vision. Was that a smile? Was that a grimace? Were those tears? 

Saliva coated lips press a final farewell— ah, or maybe a first welcome. 

May this resting place of sin become absolved, readily becoming the sacrifice at the altar to which this body will be worshipped! Whilst wiping away unseen items from a bedside table, hidden sigils etch themselves slowly into two sets of flesh— both dead, and both living. The sound of shattering glass falls upon deaf ears as pale hands fall limp into eagerly awaiting palms. 

Admiration, adoration, affection— blissful feelings and faint, melodious humming ignore the dark corners whispering of guilt and whispering of fear, muttering the premonition of bad things soon to transpire. Undress the still body, delicately cleanse transient folds of physicality, revealing the discovery of a God unearthed whilst actively defying the moral laws of previously existing entities. Would that make this a God, still? Or has a malicious anathema been welcomed into the arms of naivety? 

You cannot help yourself; you want to profane and to pollute! Face the southeast, bring your legs to a close, and begin the birthing of the dead! Commit this act of putrid, wretched blasphemy with your head held high, and never forget whom you have called upon to bring this act of perversion to light. Forget not the debts you have incurred into the sickly cells you so despise. 

This deceased vessel you have obtained refuses to dry, refuses to rot. The heat of blood pumping through a profound heart has stopped, as well as the ability to discern authenticity from one's own delusions. How much time has passed since the carcass was created; how much time has been squandered since its essence was stopped up and saved, bottled like a sick, sad butterfly? 

Youthful skin warps into something akin to a grotesquely distorted excrescence as the years pass, unbeknownst to a loathsome and obsessed fool. Time ticks away and any rationality remaining was lost long ago to a fragmentary deal.

How long has it been, really? Ask yourself this: how long would it take for the unhinged mortal mind to degrade completely?

How long does it take for one's body to follow?

A concept echoes repeatedly; ignored for too long, it stops whispering, stops speaking, begins yelling. It is agonizing, and yet no pain is felt. A query lurking in only latent recesses of the subconscious rises to the surface: what defines love?

What is it that defines the emotion felt for lifeless bodies? 

Seductively emotionless remains cradled below ardent underbelly and around eager limbs do not contain answers. What began as only a superficial devotion to a fleeting moment became a readiness to sacrifice what little breath stirs in the heated and sinful pits of someone deranged and scared. Is it right to call this manifestation of iniquity a human? 

It was born to the womb of a bleeding mother who too easily succumbed to the will of an omnipresent force; her weaknesses portraying the trademark indications of being birthed into perpetual humanity. And yet, it cannot be rightfully called human, as it is simply an amalgamation of blasphemous things gathered and stored in sweet tandem with recollections of a painful upbringing. 

Ah, how these things coalesce! What a terrifying notion, that not everyone you see is willing to labor for their rationality! How petrifying the understanding that there are those brimming with copious amounts of bile, eager and willing to spew their poison onto malleable young ones. 

Is the creature, the human in question, at fault? Is this being, willing to love and adore a cadaver of its own creation, really so evil? Such contention, and yet there is no right answer.

Ask yourselves: is it of your own volition that you host a mind filled with monochromatic views of morality?

An eye has been opened and a conversation stagnates in whispered areas of your mind. Beware of the things you hear before you sleep if you favor untroubled slumber.

Heed the warnings, and elucidate the questionings of a dying beast.

Gnarled bones and dull claws adorning almost skinless hands are once again weaving gingerly into flared and inviting curls. A decaying tongue slides out of a salivating cavern, embracing flesh not permitted to pass from this world. It tastes piquant mourning on prismatic cheeks, and in a brief moment of what could be called clear-mindedness, it wonders if within the skin of this rapturous corpse lie specters of what could be tears. 

One eyelid closes for a brief moment— the other cannot follow any longer. Discolored pupils dilate and contract in rapid succession as the process begins anew, bringing forth feathered touches and moaning exhalations. 

Breathy gasps and inhuman grunts resound through a skeletal chest, longing for a taste of something it can no longer create with its own will. A gaping mouth opens towards the sky, catching a harsh gasp in the confines of a gorge corrupted into an inspissated trypophobic nightmare. 

Facing southeastward, slimy epidermis peels from sinewy fibers and messages from an impartial benefactor resound within, guiding the faulted mind back into temporary sentience. 

You have been bought, and you have been sold! Was it worth it, child? Was the taste of immortality imbued into ones who can no longer savor the taste of how it feels to be alive worth the price paid? Do not fear anymore, for you are free to love as the sinners before you have loved.

As it remembers what it is like to be young and alive, red tears soak into the spongey, rotted dermis of a foolish romantic. And yet, this degenerating body— taking shallow, shaky breaths into collapsed lungs— stays faithful to solitary guilt. The final act of a failing mind within a failing body conjures forth but one single thought to mind:

Is it so wrong to fall in love with a corpse?


End file.
